


tasting starlight

by rikacain



Category: Breaking Bad, Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:24:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another universe (yet not quite) Spock and Jim are not who they are; and not who they portray themselves to be.</p>
<p>Or to put it simply, Spock is breaking bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tasting starlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gabs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabs/gifts).



> Gabs i love you and this is your christmas present and birthday present rolled into one because I feel guilty
> 
> I need to finish this some year have you seen my track record with multichapter fics
> 
> let me tell you: horrid
> 
> Professional notes:
> 
> Please don't kill me. I only watched up to season 2 and starting season 3 so please don't kill me if something is wrong. Also - cortropine is basically ST's equivalent of methamphetamine, ferecco is the Ferengi's version of weed but better and stardust is well. You'll see.

Historians will never account for this fact:

In the midst of the Earth-Romulan war, when Terran starships were barely able to travel above the speed of Warp 4, Ensign Pinkman of USS Heisenberg sequestered himself in a corner of Storage. Armed with a hypospray of cortropine and various chemicals taken from the laboratories, the ensign attempted to create a suitable drug cocktail for stimulating as well as satisfying his addiction. Being a part of Starfleet had disallowed him from bringing said illegal cocktail of drugs aboard the starship, and he had to make do with what he had.

A fact that Ensign Pinkman will come to exploit much later: the very corner he had chosen to carry out his illicit activities was where unusable dilithium crystals were kept, to be disposed of in an approved environment. Due to his ignorance of proper experimental protocol, the ensign would proceed to include the dilithium dust gathered on the floor within his cocktail, producing an entirely different amphetamine to the one he envisioned. After pounding the resulting (albeit strangely coloured but hey, trope was trope) crystals formed into a powder, Ensign Pinkman ingested the substance through inhalation.

Fact: Dilithyamphetamine - or as it will come to be known, stardust - feels fucking _spectacular_.

* * * * *

Spock is in need of money.

The statement is dramatic, but true nonetheless - he requires money. More accurately, he requires transport to Vulcan within the period of eighteen months and twenty days, as well as a way back within twelve days after the aforementioned deadline. The cheapest method of travel that fit the parameters was taking the train to Earth, and then to Vulcan.

The cost of the entire trip would total up to fifty thousand Federation credits. Credits that Spock did not have.

His salary would be unable to purchase the ticket to Earth, let alone the whole trip - especially after the deductions of the cost of living on Daotian IV. His father would not fund the trip, and on the probability that he would, it would be likely for Sarek to refuse to pay his way back and effectively keep Spock from returning. Starfleet will be unlikely to accept his request for a holiday, especially when he cannot and will not disclose the reason (important as it was) for his absence.

He could ask Dr. Williams for her assistance in appealing to her direct superiors, but suspected that she would be less than willing to make a fair case on her part. She seems to resent Spock on some level, although the reason why escapes him. In any case, she is as an inaccessible option as Sarek.

That leaves him having to raise money through some other method he had yet to discern.

“Sorry about that,” Nyota says, as she slides back into the seat across him.

“There is no need for an apology,” Spock tells her solemnly, but she shakes her head. “I am certain that the call was important.”

“It is, but still. You don’t take calls in the middle of an appointment, it’s considered rude,” she informs him, a casual lesson in human social norms. “They want me to come in tomorrow - seems like they rounded up another bunch of runners they want to interrogate.”

“Runners?” Spock asks.

“Runners - drug distributors,” she amends hastily.

“I was unaware of Daotian’s colonists engaging in recreational drugs usage,” he says, frowning slightly.

Nyota only smiles, grim. “There are drugs anywhere you look,” she says, “the only thing that matters is how addicted their abusers are. With that damned ban on psychotropic substances within the Federation, the street prices went up.”

“Should that not dissuade the abusers from buying them, if they’re so expensive?”

She shakes her head. “It only made them more desperate.” She takes a sip of her water. “Humans are capable of great things when they’re desperate enough,” she says darkly.

“It seems so,” he agreed, an idea forming in his mind. “What substances do they abuse?”

“Orion pheromones, that’s a popular one for date rape,” she frowns. “Ferecco isn't so harmful, but there’s a huge market for it. Nothing beats cortropine and stardust though - they're the most lucrative of the lot.”

“Stardust,” he repeats. “Nyota, a star's components consist of -”

“They're not actually stars,” she interjects, her lips curling up just slightly. “They’re not made from stars - they have a mouthful of a name - ah, dilithyamphetamine.”

“A psychoactive stimulant used to treat neurological diseases,” he says, as if he is making an observation of an interesting phenomenon.

“That gives one hell of a kick, as some would say.” Nyota sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “We’ve been trying to get Starfleet in to help, but that’s where all their extra credits come from - stardust. All those degenerated dilithium crystals have to go somewhere.”

Straight into the nose of a human, Spock thinks. He’s not wrong.

“But surely psychotropic substances cannot be sold at high proces,” he prompts.

“A hundred credits per gram,” she returns, almost on cue. “And double that amount by the end of this month.”

“You prove your point,” he says tactfully, and the idea finally forms.

* * * * *

The idea is not legal, but it is logical. Spock merely has to produce twenty kilograms of dilithymaphetamine, sell it to a distributor at two hundred credits per gram and receive the amount he needs. After that, he could remain on Daotian IV as Dr. William's assistant until the end of his contract and then return to Starfleet for his next assignment, preferably on board a starship.

The first course of action is to identify a distributor. The fastest way to achieve this goal is to let them approach him in hopes of selling him their products, where he can then proposition them to get him in contact with their superior. To do this, he ascertains that a bar of dubious reputation would be the best place to attract attention.

However, he has been sitting in ‘The Drinking Hole’ establishment for an approximation of three hours (and twenty seven minutes, to be truly exact) and no one has approached him save for the bartender, who had merely gruffed out a, “what do you want?”

To which Spock politely answered, tea.

The concoction in front of him is definitely not tea, Spock discovers upon his first sip. He does not touch it.

His fellow customers alternate between regarding him warily and discussing their own businesses with their acquaintances in hushed tones. He understands that his presence is an anomaly in itself - for what purpose would a Vulcan enter a bar, let alone one of seedy reputation - but had also hoped that it would attract attention. After his meeting with the distributor, Spock has no plans to set foot in a bar ever again.

However, he knows when to give up and to return at a later date. At four hours into this endeavour, Spock gets up - just as a man slides into the seat across him. The man grins, sharp and bright.

"You're not from these parts," he drawls, not asking. "No one ever ordered tea from Gary, you know?"

"I assume that by 'Gary', you are referring to the bartender." Spock assesses the man - he's not too short but stocky, and holds himself carelessly. The way he is leaning over the table almost suggests that he has no backbone to hold himself up with - but of course, that is impossible. All humans are born with vertebrae. Those without are handicapped. "If so, I am aware. This cup of liquid is not tea."

The man laughs. Spock frowns at him - he had merely stated a fact. "A Vulcan with a sense of humour," he grins, almost conspiratorial. "I'm Jim."

Perhaps this is how the distributors approach their customers. "My name is Spock," he says shortly.

Jim nods. “So what are you doing in this fine establishment,” he asks casually, as if he is inquiring about the weather. Spock raises an eyebrow at the adjective of ‘fine’ - fine, this bar is not by any standards. But he keeps his words to himself. “It’s unusual for a Vulcan to come into here.”

Spock considers his words carefully. Even if Jim seems like someone who frequents the establishment frequently, it does not help him in discerning whether he is a ‘runner’. The Vulcan glances quickly over the man’s arms and face, looking for symptoms identifying addiction - and finds none.

He quashes down his feelings of disappointment. This is merely a false path, not even a setback.

“Well?” Jim prods.

Vulcans cannot lie, but he can settle for leaving out the specific details of his situation.

“I am waiting for an associate,” he tells Jim, who looks at him in bemusement. He wonders what can be so confusing about meeting someone. Is it not something practiced by the humans themselves?

“A friend?”

“Vulcans do not have friends,” Spock tells Jim automatically, because they do not. Notions of favouring an acquaintance not related by blood over another is illogical.

“Then… a business partner,” Jim guesses. His guess is not incorrect. “Funny place to be conducting business.”

“I do not see how the bar is a humourous location,” Spock says stiffly.

“It is, when Scotty’s around. He’s a roar,” Jim says cheerfully, oblivious to Spock’s increasing dislike of him. “Who are you waiting for? Maybe I can help you find him.”

There is no name to be given, and Spock thinks quickly. “He did not give me his name,” he says.

“Then how would you know that you are meeting the correct person?”

Which is the flaw in Spock’s plan; a plan he has no choice but to execute considering that he has no connections to anyone who dealt in recreational substances. Nor does he want to foster any. He lifts his chin by a centimeter, staring Jim down.

“There are other ways to identify a person without giving his name,” Spock says. “However, I believe that today it is too late to continue my efforts to meet my associate.” He stands up, drawing attention to his table by the scrape of his chair against the floor. Jim remains seated.

“Sit down, Mr. Spock.” He says softly. It’s not a request, but a command. Spock bristles. “I won’t say it again. Sit down.”

“I see no reason why to,” he replies.

“Because the moment you walk out of the door, who knows which ditch you will end up in,” Jim says cheerfully. “You’re something new. New means dangerous around here. Don't you know that, detective?”

“Detective?” He repeats, now perplexed.

“Did Komack send you to scout the area?” Any traces of his easy-going demeanour is now gone; in its place is someone almost unrecognisable. “He could have picked the worst possible recruit to assign to this area - a Vulcan sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” Spock says, because clearly there has been.

“That’s what they all say,” Jim counters quickly. Spock frowns.

“Very well. I am not a detective.”

“They say that too.”

“You do not understand,” Spock reiterates. “I am not a detective.”

“I understand the words but that doesn’t mean that you aren't lying."

“Vulcans do not lie.” At Jim’s unbelieving countenance, he clarifies. “Vulcans cannot lie. It is a characteristic of our race. Furthermore,” he adds, “if you were to check the public and private records, there will be no record of a Vulcan employee under the police jurisdiction.”

Jim stares at him. “Let’s say I believe you,” he finally says. “If you’re not with Komack, then why are you here?”

Spock deliberates on whether to tell Jim the truth. It could be risky, allowing this man who had just threatened him all the facts to Spock’s situation.

It could also be rewarding, should Jim had the correct connections to point him on his way.

“I wish to meet a distributor of the drug dilithyamphetamine," he says.

His reaction is not gratifying. The man stares at him, and after a pause of three and a half seconds, laughs. Spock remains stony-faced.

"That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke," Jim admits. "A Vulcan walks into a bar and asks for stardust.”

“I requested the bartender for tea,” Spock corrects him.

The man does not respond to Spock’s version of the events. “What are you going to do with the stardust? Snort it?”

“I will not,” Spock says, almost affronted if he could be affronted. Ingesting the drug would only prove detrimental to his health.

“Then what?” Jim leans back slightly, looking no less challenging. “Your story isn’t holding up well here, Mr. Not-Detective.”

"My words need no verification." Spock stares Jim down, who stares back with the swagger of a man who is sure of his victory. "Will you assist me in contacting a 'runner'?"

They make a strange pair, a standing Vulcan and a sitting human. Slowly, slowly, a grin splits across Jim's face. It's almost like he had won instead of Spock, and Spock does not understand.

"You're talking to one," and oh, now Spock does.

* * * * *

That was a week ago. In a period of seven days, much has changed.

Of course, this doesn't stop Jim Kirk from bombarding him with questions that simply do not concern him.

"So why are you suddenly breaking bad?" He asks as Spock comes back with an armful of science apparatus and chemicals taken from Williams' laboratories. He intentionally neglects informing his superior about his borrowing of the equipment.

"What are you going to use all that money on?" He asks as they purchase a sizable hovercraft on Jim's insistence, even if it's for the initial dubious reason of _it's cool_. After Spock's own insistence that the temperature of the vehicle does not affect the production of dilithyamphetamine in any way, Jim finally admitted that a portable location to store and keep all of the chemicals and apparatus and an efficient escape vehicle from the planet-wide authorities were important factors in acquiring a trailer. Spock finally acquiesced.

“You gonna use it to buy a starship or something?” He asks as he deposits a boxful of cortropine hypo-sprays in front of Spock. “You owe me fifty credits for the trope,” he adds.

“Trope?” Spock repeats.

“This. Cortropine.” Jim points at the box, rather unnecessarily. “I got a guy to order us an extra box. You need it to cook stardust.”

Spock does not comment on the phrase Jim uses. Instead, he says, “there is only one box. Where is the extra box you are talking about?”

Jim snorts. “This is the extra box,” he says emphatically. “Nero has a merchandise vessel smuggling in cortropine and Orion girls, remember? I got a buddy on board to get us an extra box, along with Nero’s main.”

Nero is apparently Jim’s superior, Spock finds out upon requesting that the runner bring him to the man. Jim had refused. “Cook a batch to show him you mean business,” he had advised. “Don’t expect a deal just because a Vulcan goes up to him and offers to cook.”

Although rife with Terran slang and codewords Spock did not fully understand, Jim’s advice had a point. He would, as the Terran said, 'cook a batch' and prove to Nero that he 'means business'.

Spock takes measure of the chemicals they are in possession of, before frowning. "We are still in need of dilithium crystals," he states.

"No shit, Sherlock," Jim says. "Without the stars you only get the dust, and that isn't good enough of a kick."

"So where will I be able to acquire dilithium?" Spock asks. Jim doesn't look at him.

"I might have someone," he says.

The following day there's a degenerated dilithium crystal the size of his fist on the counter and Jim Kirk on the driver's seat, staring at Spock.

"Well," he turns to the wheel, starting up the hovercraft. “Let’s get cooking.”

* * * * *

They drive out to a wide expanse of desert, because there’s nowhere better to produce stardust except for in the middle of nowhere - or so Jim says. Spock is able to understand the logic of using an isolated space where no one and more importantly, no authorities would be able to witness them producing an illegal substance. He is not able to understand the usage of the phrase ‘in the middle of nowhere’, because everything is made of matter and nowhere simply does not exist as they have to be somewhere -

“Stop,” Jim groans. “I get it. We’re in the middle of somewhere that the authorities won’t even bother to look at. Happy?”

Spock is not feeling emotionally overwhelmed, but he does say, “barely.” The hovercraft shudders to a halting stop, and he primly removes his seatbelt and moves to the rear of the craft, setting all the apparatus and chemicals into their respectively accessible positions.

He frowns. There is something missing.

“You did not acquire the bodysuits,” Spock states plainly.

Jim shrugs into the steering wheel. “Didn’t see the need for it,” he says. Spock’s mouth tightens into a line.

“Is that so.”

“Yup.” The human turns his head slightly, as if he is peeking at Spock. “What did you say it was for again?”

“I did not.” Perhaps this was a failure on Spock’s part - after all, he did not specify the individual reasons for every material on the list he had given to Jim.

Even so, none of the items on the list were unnecessary. Spock would have not written it down if they were. He did not have the all too human tendency of buying things that were not important.

“So what’s it for?” Jim repeats.

“To prevent the odour of the fumes produced by the reaction between red phosphorus and the dilithium suspension from seeping into our clothings and alerting our acquaintances to our activities,” Spock explains, a bit more sharply than an explanation warrants. “Perhaps we shall have to postpone the production of the dilithyamphetamine.”

“Hold up, Spock,” Jim says, before he quickly amends the unfamiliar phrase to, “Wait. Can’t we do without it?”

“I have no inclination towards casting suspicion onto myself,” Spock says.

Jim blinks once, twice. “You said you don’t want the clothes to get smelly.”

“In otherwise imprecise terms, yes.”

“So why not cook naked,” Jim suggests. Spock raises his eyebrow in incredulity. “We stash our clothes outside, somewhere odour-free, we cook, we wear our clothes, we go home.”

It was… Definitely not acceptable in human social norms. He did not need Nyota to tell him so. But the idea holds merit, nonetheless, and it will be only for one occasion. Spock will personally buy his bodysuit himself, and Jim can remain naked if he would neglect the use of one.

“Very well,” Spock finds himself saying. “Your idea is acceptable.”

“That’s a first,” Jim mutters, but flashes a blinding grin at Spock nonetheless.

They strip.

They are both male. There is nothing indecent about this, Spock reminds himself as he pushes his shirt off and folds it neatly on the counter. The rustling of cloth behind him alludes to Jim to dropping any article of clothing onto the floor the moment it is removed from his body. This is merely a necessary evil.

“I believe that there is no need to remove your undergarments,” the Vulcan says as his hands hover over his own boxers. He clenches them once, before turning around.

Jim is already lounging against the counter, looking entirely too comfortable in his naked skin. His eyes flick up and down Spock's form, before he grins lazily at Spock.

Spock does not return the grin. He has a drug to produce.

* * * * *

Boil the cortropine. Separate its components. Wash the crystal. Use acid to eat away at the degenerated bits. Put on the gas mask. Measure out the red phosphorus.

Sixty-two minutes, thirteen seconds, and a set of procedures Spock memorised by merely glancing at once later, a good number of crystals are resting upon absorbent sheets, glittering pale and pink in the hovercraft's artificial light. Jim picks one up with a tweezer, holding it to the bulb.

"Wow," he breathes, and Spock denies the triumph he feels.

* * * * *

He is packing the third batch of crystals away when he hears the soft _snick_ of plastic pouch being unzipped.

There is no reason to re-examine the drug, considering that all of the individual crystals have been doubly checked for impurities. With Spock’s precision and thoroughness, there has been no cause for concern; yet it is always a logical choice to err on the side of caution.

Hence, there is no reason for Jim to -

Spock turns around, but it is too late - the runner has already inhaled a crushed amount of the psychoactive substance. He strides over, pushing him back and away from the batches and Jim goes easily, staggering slightly.

His eyes are dilated, and the rate of his heartbeat as observed through the pulse on his neck has increased.There is no need to confirm whether he had ingested the drug.

“Do not touch the product,” he says severely. This man was a distributor? Jim is not a Vulcan, very much human - Spock should have considered whether the man had been truthful about his acquaintance with Nero. Perhaps Jim had only wanted the product itself.

“Someone’s gotta test it,” Jim says, rolling his shoulders back and grinning, wide-eyed and wild. “Else we’ll just be another name on the market. Nero’ll have me test it anyway, the paranoid bastard.”

It is far from a good reason. There is a sheen of sweat forming on Jim's tanned body - a symptom of taking the drug. The pure version of dilithyamphetamine is much more potent than Spock had expected, with the symptoms manifesting so quickly.

(Perhaps he can charge even higher.)

“We do not use the product in any way, not even for ' _tests_ '," and the last word is said with the barest hint of disdain. "We sell it and our buyers will provide sufficiently as test subjects."

"Not for Nero," Jim counters.

This is a battle Spock will not win. He abandons the topic, settling back to his initial point, "do not touch the product."

"I heard you the first time."

"Did you?"

They are left staring at each other, and Spock briefly wonders if Jim would resort to violence. His body is tense, a coiled spring, and Spock merely waits for the snap.

"Two kilos," Jim finally says, turning away. "That’ll be two million credits. I'll give you the credits from the sale within the week, minus half for my share."

"Half?" Spock inquires, ready to negotiate because he is the one who did all of the work while Jim merely sat and observed.

"Half," Jim repeats. "If you went to Nero with your original plan, you're gonna get only ten. Take my deal or leave it."

* * * * *

Spock takes it.

* * * * *

Three days later, a unregistered Federation credit card is delivered to his doorstep, along with a mobile phone. There is only one message in the phone.

_Keep the phone and the card. I’ll contact you._

One million credits stares at him from the PADD screen, stark black against the white background. Spock keeps the card in his safe.


End file.
